


Pencil Through My Heart

by elwinglyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Jim Moriarty Made Them Do It, M/M, Mixed Signals, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, adrenaline surges ensue, bottomlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:19:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28529835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: What’s worse? Sharing a byline with an arrogant consulting reporter or falling for him?  Seasoned section editor John Watson faces this impossible choice. But first John must find him. Of course Holmes is out chasing the story of the century without him!  In the process, Watson must reassess who and what he is, and even worse, admit he cares.Thank you to hotshoeagain for the excellent beta. I deeply appreciate you!For bookgirlwithlove for Fandom Trumps Hate who gave me loads of ideas for this!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 65
Kudos: 68
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BookGirlWithLove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookGirlWithLove/gifts).



Gone. Not one text. 

_ “This is Sherlock Holmes, consulting reporter. Leave a message. Or don’t,”  _ John Watson heard the velvety baritone croon every day over the last four weeks. 

Since becoming section editor, John Watson had stuck his neck out for plenty of fellow reporters and never regretted it. Until now. He was running out of excuses. The editor wanted answers—answers that Watson couldn’t give. 

Why didn’t he answer? Holmes was attached to his mobile. Obsessed. He hated talking on it but texted like a beast. 

The only reason he wouldn’t answer was that he must have relapsed. John never should have put his trust in a reformed junkie.

John heard that message so many times that it was beginning to invade his dreams. 

Until two days ago. The message changed. 

_ “The party you are calling is not available.” _

He finds that he missed that voice. His editor is ringing his desk phone. John taps his mobile and calls. _ One. More. Time. _

No Holmes. Instead John hears ...  _ “The user’s voice mailbox is full”  _ at the same instant the editor yells in voice mail, “Pick up the phone, Watson!”

He leaps out of his chair and flings his arms in the air. He stomps his feet like a child. 

“Fuck! Why ‽ Why did I ever listen to him ‽ ” he shouts at the ceiling. In a fit, he throws his tin cup filled with pencils at the wall. The hollow clatter is not as satisfying as John had hoped for.

The office door across the hall cautiously creaks open. Feet slowly shuffle across the tile floor, and lead writer Fred Osborn pokes his head inside John’s open office door. Over the years, he’s become used to John’s outbursts. 

“Temper, temper!” Osborn says, wagging his finger at him. “Everything alright, Watson?” He blows an errant gray hair from his comb-over out of his eyes, then crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe.

“No, I’m an idiot,” he shakes his head.

“Ha,” he smirks. “You just figured that out? I could have told you that years ago.”

“Thanks, Osborn.” 

John sighs as he stands to pick up the pencils. He bends down. His knee aches. It’s been throbbing again over the last few weeks. Bugger! He’ll have to get on his hands and knees to grab the last three that rolled under his desk.

Osburn’s fingers brush the office door handle as he watches. “Tut, tut, carry on. I’ll give you some alone time with your pencils. You’ll need to resharpen them. I know that you like them with a good, sharp point.” 

John waits to hear Osburn’s soft laughter and the click of the door before he crawls around retrieving them. Afterward it’s the memory of Osburn’s gentle jesting that allows John to ease back in his chair with his handful of pencils. He rubs his leg and takes a few deep breaths. Where is his cane? He could yell, swear, but there’s no point. His rant has wrung dry, he leans back in his old chair and closes his eyes. 

_ Really, _ John thinks, _ I have no one to blame other than my own need for excitement. _

It began with that baritone voice enticing him, promising him. John realizes he should have suspected he was up to something when Holmes offered to share the byline with him. Even insisted on putting John’s name first. 

_ It was my choice,  _ John thinks. _ I was warned by Donovan. What did she say? “You’re going to risk your career for him—some freak of a crime reporter?”  _

John sighs and shakes his head and plops the pencils rubbers first into the cup. Yeah, broken tips and nubs. Osburn is right, he’ll need to resharpen them. 

_ All for a direct homepage column link and a rush of adrenaline. Oh, and the fact that it came in a leading-man handsome package.  _

He takes the first pencil between his finger and thumb, then rolls it around. Pencils. He prefers to edit his copy by jotting notes in the margin and lining out words. It’s what he does, what he is. Some of the other reporters don’t understand this need. 

He sharpens them one by one.

John knows it’s his fault. It began with penknives, pushpins, a series of small fires. From there it graduated to three mutilated bodies and that silky-deep voice inviting him to “Follow me. Could be dangerous.” 

Of course he followed Holmes. John was the first to admit his life had stagnated. His only excitement was visiting his sister and feeding ducks. All he’d written in the last two years were feature articles about entertainers and self-help authors. He hated it. He was miserable. Even more when he saw other reporters breaking stories that he should have written. He missed his crime beat. When Holmes offered John a taste of what he’d once had, John devoured it. He’d missed the excitement and rush of adrenaline so bloody much. The running most of all. He forgot his gimp leg and left his cane behind. Instead, he lived for the breathless feeling and ragged contentment after a heart-pounding, breakneck chase. It’s been only four weeks, and he sorely missed jumping over dumpsters in dark alleys.

But that’s not all of it. He has to admit that part of it is Holmes himself. Unsolved crimes are his specialty. Those perfect puzzling crimes that became headlines because Holmes saw what no one else could see.

Despite his caustic nature, Holmes immediately held an unnatural fascination for John. Maybe it was John’s own caustic nature that kept him from completely hating the man. Holmes insulted him, left him alone in alleys with growling dogs, ate the very last jammy dodger in his desk, and left blood-soaked socks to dry on his chair. 

With all these negatives in the debit column, John was still awed. John saw a bloke with dirt under his nails he neglected to wash off. Holmes? He saw a killer who, moments earlier, torched the evidence in the bathroom sink. Holmes was equal parts brilliant and an utter knob. 

_ And, god save me, I still followed him and will gladly follow him again. _

He should have said goodbye to it all two days after meeting Holmes when John was kidnapped not once, but twice. First by Holmes’ pompous brother, Mycroft Holmes, a posher and more obnoxious version of the younger brother. The second and more terrifying kidnapping was by that homicidal maniac Mycroft warned him about. 

He should have listened to Mycroft when the shiny, black Bentley pulled up next to him as he was walking to his sister’s when two of his men stepped out and invited him into the backseat of the sedan. John laughed in his face when Mycroft told him that Holmes the younger planned to use John as a decoy for a killer. 

“Sure he is,” he said. “Nothing ever happens to me.”

He offered a nice sum to report back what his little brother was “up to.” John said no. There have been moments when he thought he was too quick in saying no instead of telling him to shove the umbrella up his arse. 

John called his sister Harry to let her know he'd been detained. No need to explain that he was in Mycroft’s sedan or that he was some sort of arch-enemy to Holmes or possibly the Dark Lord. He was good enough to drop him off at his sister’s. John thought he could salvage the rest of the day. After Mycroft’s sedan pulled away, John climbed the steps and was about to knock on the door. That’s when the homicidal maniac hit him on the back of the head.

He slowly came to consciousness, his head throbbing. Opening his eyes, he immediately regretted that he hadn’t listened to Mycroft Holmes. He was no longer near Harry’s Gloucester Street flat. He was not even in London.

It was John’s first face-to-face contact with a serial killer. Tied to an old dead oak with its branches loaded with sparrows singing death songs.

“Where?” John had mumbled in a daze.

“Surrey Hills. An old estate of my family’s,” chirped the maniac. 

He swaggered comically around the tree in his oversized suit. Not so comical when John grasped the situation. His arms and body bound to the tree. The bark was charred along with grass where he was tied. And the ground beneath his feet? Clotted blood. A petrol can sat near the maniac’s feet.

“I bring them all here to my home, to this very spot,” he said, bragging. “Slice them up with this.” He held out a paper thin blade of boning knife, brushing it against John’s neck. 

John knew it should have terrified him as the blade nicked him. Instead he felt numb as blood trickled down his neck. Was this some kind of dream? The hit to his head must have addled him. It was just that this man’s clothing was comical and his eyes were bloodshot and watering, John couldn’t help but laugh.

“Stop that!” he screamed. “No one laughs at me and lives. I taught all of them. I burned the bodies over there. Crush the bones and spread them on my veggie patch.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” John said, giggling. “Fe fi fo fum! I smell the blood of an Englishman.” 

“I said, stop it. You’re going to be so sorry for this.” He swished the blade before John’s eyes. 

“You don’t look much like a giant ready to grind my bones or a serial killer,” John said. “In fact, you look more like Mr. Bean.”

“Don’t call me that!” he squeaked out. His face turned bright red and he began to shake. With those watery bug eyes and long nose crinkled up, John was positive he could be the actor Rowan Atkinson’s body double. 

“I’ll teach you,” his lips quivered. “I happen to have the best tomatoes at the farmer’s market  _ and _ had absolutely no evidence remaining.”

John blinked. 

The maniac cackled like a goose, which upset the sparrows. They scattered off the branches, dead leaves floating down around them. 

The maniac picked up the can of petrol. John pulled against the ropes that tied him. 

“Lovely day! A perfect day to die,” the maniac giggled as he raised the can above John’s head. It poured down, flattening his hair and streaming down his face. John recalled how dizzy he felt from the fumes and how his nose and throat burned as the fucker flung the petrol all over his body.

John gagged, and his eyes felt like they were already on fire. 

“But I’ve always wanted to set someone alive ablaze,” the killer chimes out. “Although I do hate to skip slicing you to ribbons, but I need to cut a few corners to save time.” He held an unlit match between his fingers. He struck it against the tree next to John’s head. 

In John’s first-hand account he’d written in his personal blog:  _ I was two breaths away from becoming a flaming bonfire when Sherlock Holmes appeared from behind the bushes. Like a whirlwind, he rushed in, and during the distraction, I blew out the match. _

_ Our maniac was not amused. Frankly, neither was I. _

John had learned three things from the experience: One, that although he’d never met one until that day, he hates psychopathic killers who gloat. Two he had a distinct hatred for reporters who used their supposed mates to bait said psychopathic killers. And three, he has an aversion to old country estates with dead oak trees that house hordes of sparrows.

“Another bloody reporter!” the maniac huffed, turning on Holmes, flinging the remaining petrol on him as well.

Still, Sherlock was the one pointing a gun. 

“That was uncalled for,” he said. 

“A lighted match!” the maniac says, striking a second one. “A little fire, scarecrow?” 

As he’s about to throw the match, Holmes shoots. 

John flinches. It’s a miss for both the match and the bullet.

“Trajectory completely off.” Holmes laughed and winked at John. “But it worked as a distraction. I won’t miss next time.” He points the gun at the killer’s chest. “Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum.”

“You fuck! How long were you listening?” John blinked, eyes burning. “Hey, isn’t that my gun?” 

Still aiming the gun at the maniac, Holmes stepped up to the killer, holding out one of his palms. “Hand me the matches, then get on the ground, face first.”

“That _ is _ my gun.”

“Found it in the bottom drawer of your desk. Thought it might come in handy. I was most disappointed you neglected to bring it along.”

“What? Neglected to bring it along? I didn’t know I’d be kidnapped! Twice!” 

“Yes, well, my brother did let me know you had run into a bit of trouble. You should be more grateful. I saved you.”

“Saved me? You’re the reason I’m tied to this tree, half-blinded. A bit of trouble?”

Holmes ignored John’s rant and waved John’s Sig Sauer in the maniac's face. “I recorded it all. Excellent confession.”

———————--

He wrote it all in his personal blog. He got almost as many hits on that as his news articles. That was how John got hooked by a mad man. 

From there, John pretended not to hang onto Holmes’ every word. But he is so damned good, it’s spooky! 

“The problem is,” John had explained to head editor Gregory Lestrade over pints a couple of days after The Incident at the Tree, “it’s like me trying to eat only one Jammie Dodger. I can’t stop. And when I hear Holmes and his bloody deductions, I want it all: I want to devour every single one, dab my fingers in the crumbs, and lick them clean. I can’t walk away from Holmes on a hot lead.”

“Can’t say as I blame you, mate,” Greg had agreed. “The day he talked me into giving him a chance at a regular crime beat on The Eyewitness—that was the day I entered the Nine Circles of Hell. But what a descent it's been.”

“Hey! That’s a line from my blog.”

“Yea, and I keep telling you to share the wealth on that.” Greg’s hand slapped John hard on the back. “No hard feelings. Thing is, though, for someone obsessed with death, Sherlock doesn’t know what the word deadline means.”

He’s not answering calls. John can see Holmes had read some of his texts but didn’t respond. Holmes had ignored Greg as well. 

The phone rings on his desk, bringing John out of his thoughts. It’s Lestrade. Again. He’ll play Holmes’ role: avoidance. Imitation in the sincerest form of flattery. He lets the machine answer. John’s mobile chimes. _ Lestrade. _ He lets it go to voicemail. John pulls the fine hairs at the nape of his neck and wonders how many times a dash flashes on a white screen before blindness sets in.  _ Fucking new laptop. Ha.  _ The shit is, he’s been counting.  _ I’m up to 1,337 blinks— _ he thinks.  _ Yeah, and I’m obsessing on a missing pixel in the upper right corner of my monitor, and it’s only a matter of minutes before Greg is pounding on my office door. _

In ten minutes, Greg is knocking on his door, and John still has no answers. Lestrade usually walks away when John’s in one of his moods and doesn’t answer, but not today. Greg throws the door open and stalks in.

“What ever happened to quality control in the UK, America, China, or where ever the fuckity-fuck this was made?” John asks Greg, hoping to distract him.

“John, why aren’t you answering your phone or mobile? Where is Holmes? You told me the other night that you’d track him down and let me know. It’s been weeks since he aggravated Anderson. John? Something else is wrong. What?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. He’s disappeared. Vanished. No word goodbye. I feel like an arse for believing in him.” John hates it that it hurts. Thing is, part of him is worried. It has been four weeks.

“Fucking git,” John grumbles. No, he shouldn’t care.

John’s chief editor and good friend snatches a pencil off John’s desk and draws a big X draw across the spot on the newspaper page where their column used to be. 

“No more of our Improbable Truth column.”

_ The one Holmes coerced me into. I had my own safe column.  _ John wonders,  _ Why did I agree to write with him? _

At first Greg had run some of his old favorite columns to fill the space in the B section. People complained. There’s only so much of the Best of John Watson they want. People have already read them once, and it’s online. Not like they can’t go into the archives and reread it. 

The worst part? The comments. People are merciless. 

“Well, I’m waiting,” says Lestrade. “Tell me I shouldn’t be worried.”

“I can’t.”

And it’s true. He’s been waiting for Holmes to pop back out from behind the bushes like he did that day in Surrey Hills, but it hasn’t happened.

“Where is he?”

“Would you believe me if I said I still have no clue.”

“Really. Isn’t that what he and you both are all about? Clues? I wouldn’t be surprised if a disgruntled subject of one his exposés murdered him.”

John frowns. _ That’s disturbing. _ He didn’t want to face the possibility that it could be true. His anger flips to concern. Oddly, it makes John even more pissed off at Holmes. _ No, I don’t care about Holmes. He’s a blight, a canker, an unmuzzled pox on the world. Why should I care? _

Lestrade thrusts his hands in his pockets while his dark-brown eyes bore into John’s.

John blinks. He understands. 

“No. I know that eagle-eyed glare. It’s the ‘I’m going to assign you to a crap story’ look.”

“Whatever story he’s on, you were already on it, and it has to be big. If he is dead, that’s an even bigger story.”

“I can’t. I have …”

“Don’t even try to finish that sentence. You have nothing to do. I stopped running old columns. You haven’t published a new word in weeks. Since himself has been out of the picture, you’ve run dry. Face it, John, he pushes something in you. You gave up and then he shows his smarmy face and you come alive again. You can hate him all you want. It works. You two pummel each other like a couple of boxers, but you both keep your chins up. God, I want to see who comes out the bloodiest just to see the fucking brilliant stories you both write. No, John,” he says, pointing at the door. “You are putting that old muck-raking hat back on and going out there and finding Sherlock Holmes.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry I have taken so long to get this chapter up today. Next week will go faster I hope.

John tells himself at first that he doesn’t want to find Holmes. Not really. But when he can’t find him, really can’t, he’s desperate to. It becomes an obsession: _ The Search for Sherlock Holmes _ .

John noses around in the man’s office and doesn’t find much. If Holmes wanted John to find him, he hadn’t left clues. John seeks out all of Holmes’ haunts and drug dens of old. These remain sources for Holmes, a positive result left from a negative—a network of information left from his history of addiction. Holmes introduced John to this family on more than one occasion. John goes to the back alleys for information and gets down and dirty with the homeless network. Nothing. It’s as if Sherlock has left the face of the earth and been abducted by aliens. That would make a sensational headline. He can’t find a way to contact his brother, Mycroft. It seems to John that his older brother should have contacted John if there was something terribly wrong. Or maybe not. He might not think John is important enough to be informed. 

Mrs. Martha Hudson, his landlady, and from what Holmes had told him, someone Holmes highly respects, is the one person who could shed light where Holmes might be. Unfortunately, she’s been out of the country for the last month. He’d considered breaking into Holmes’ flat on Baker Street. He doubts that Holmes would afford him the same courtesy, but he’d rather wait and get Mrs. Hudson to let him inside.

He’s in day three of his search when John finally gets a tip from an unlikely source. He’s having a drink at the Globe with his good friend Mike Stamford when John begins to vent his frustration with the case. 

“Holmes? Sherlock Holmes? There’s a name I haven’t heard since uni.”

“You know him?” John asks, confused. How could Mike not know that they worked together unless Mike hasn’t been reading his blog?

“Mike, Holmes has been sharing a byline with me for a few years. How could you not realize this? It’s not like he has a normal name. Who names their child Sherlock?”

“Same people who name their child Mycroft. Sorry that I paid no mind to it. Don’t know how I missed it. Must be I just read the stories you wrote, and you wrote them, that’s for certain.”

He’s lying, but John doesn’t call him on it. He may know something to help him find the wanker.

“How do you know him?” John asks.

“From uni. A friend of a friend of mine, Molly Hooper. We’re not that close. Rarely speak to him anymore unless I run into him at the morgue. He visits her frequently. If you want information about him, that’s who I’d talk to. You might try asking her. She works at Barts in the basement.”

What did Holmes say about there being no coincidences?

“The morgue,” John says. Sherlock’s source for those body parts. Why is he not surprised? 

——————-

As John walks through Barts to the morgue, he feels the pangs of his lost dream. He wanted to be a doctor once. He even applied to medical school. It was all he wanted growing up. In desperation, he enlisted in the army with the intention of going to medical school after. Then he was shot. His second love, writing, took him on another path. He needed an instant income and applied at The Telegraph. That’s how he found the excitement of the crime beat. He stayed at The Telegraph until Greg made him a better offer.

Mike leads them into the elevator to the basement to meet this Molly Hooper. They’re through the double doors, and Miss Hooper smiles as she takes off her gloves to shake John’s hand, then quickly snaps on a new pair. Mike introduces them and politely leaves. He needs to get to work, after all.

She has a warm smile and with her fresh face and hair neat in a ponytail, she looks more like a kid than an accomplished doctor. 

“Do you mind if I continue working?” she asks.

“No, I’m fine.” And he doesn’t mind at all. He’s been in a morgue more than once and in his younger days, he saw a lot more gruesome sights during his time as a captain in Afghanistan. 

She turns to the job before her. “Makes a lot of people queasy.”

“But not Holmes.” 

“Sherlock?” she says, carefully inspecting the cadaver of a young adult male. “No, not Sherlock.” She wrinkles her nose. She’s kind of cute when she does it. Makes John think of his sister Harry when she used to talk about her girl friend. 

“It fascinates him,” she says with a grin and blushes. 

Then John realises. Molly has a crush on Sherlock.

“Sherlock has mentioned you before. Said he worked with you on more than one story.”

“Yeah. We’ve shared a number of bylines.”

“John Doe is in his early twenties,” she says into the voice recorder. “No distinguishing tattoos or scars.” She picks up his hand. “Bruising on the top of the right hand with abrasions on the knuckles.” She looks at John and turns off the recorder. “I’ve been so worried about Sherlock. The last time I saw him, he came down to the morgue a mess. I could tell he hadn’t been sleeping—that happens with him a lot. He doesn’t sleep enough, you know. Or eat.” She steps back and sighs. 

“Yeah, I know. He says it interferes with his massive brain.”

Her eyes go wide. Yes, she does have a crush. She didn’t appreciate John’s jibe. 

“He doesn’t like to eat when he’s on a story, but this was different,” she continues. “He is  _ always _ put together.” Molly took a seat on a stool next to the head of the table. She’s examining the cadaver’s face. “His hair may look unkempt, but believe me he spends more time than I do on mine. He is always dressed immaculately, never a wrinkle, shirts and trousers crisp. This was not the case the last time I saw him. He’d been wearing those clothes for days! His hair was snarled, face smudged, eyes bloodshot. I’m certain he hadn’t slept in days and days.”

She turns on the recorder. “Same bruising on the right temple with minor contusion over right eye.”

“That doesn’t sound like him at all,” John agrees. “His appearance, I mean, not the sleeping.”

She nods and turns off the recorder. “Something was off.” She flips the recorder back on. “No heart abnormalities or damage. Another unknown death.” She shakes her head as she turns off the recorder and looks up at John. “It’s a mystery. This is the third time I’ve gone over the body. We’ve run a whole spectrum of tests. All negative. Nothing, yet ...”

“More than a mystery. You think this is something sinister. Murder?” John says. “The same killer?”

“Sherlock did. He thought these were all connected. Five, now six people dead with no apparent cause. Similar minor injuries, but there’s nothing I can find that killed them. People don’t just die. There’s always a reason. I mean, hearts and respiration don’t just stop without a cause.”

“How often do you help him with cases?” he asks. 

“More than I should. Before this, the last was the Lockheed killings. Some people think he loves going after the really gruesome ones. Victims sliced to bits, but it has to be more than blood and guts. Needs to be some thought behind it. He hates stupid killers.”

“Mmm, don’t we all …”

It’s exactly as he suspected ... Holmes has gone after a psychopathic maniac who has probably dismembered him and hidden the parts from one end of London to the other. John shivers. Holmes may be a bloody tosser but no one deserves that end.

“I knew he was onto a big story,” she says. “He talked about this crime mastermind he’s been after for months. We’d been puzzled by this string of unexplained deaths. He was certain they were all victims of this same killer, this psychopath. Sherlock said these murders were to get his attention. I should have listened to him! He told me.  _ He told me _ .”

“Told you what?”

She bites her lip and stares down at her hands. Her gloved fists are clenched. It’s not just that Holmes is missing. John can tell there’s more off than Miss Hooper has revealed.

“That’s just it. He kept it from me. He refused to tell me who he thought the murderer was. He claimed he wanted to be certain.”

To John, that was Holmes completely. The man loves keeping people in the dark. He withheld details all the time from John, and the same with Greg, up until his dramatic reveal. Why would it be any different for this Molly? No, something was definitely off. 

“But you know now. His name. Who does Holmes suspect?”

John’s eyes are drawn to her feet as she shuffles them nervously against the tile of the floor. 

“His name is James, James Moriarty.”

John’s head flies up. Moriarty is on John’s list of leads that were deadends. John recalled the day two years ago when he found the name Moriarty written in Holmes’ elegant hand across a page of notes. John had asked Holmes, who became particularly animated. He referred to Moriarty as a criminal genius. The awe in Holmes’ voice left John to believe that Holmes has a personal fascination with Moriarty. At the time, John mistook it as the interest of a sexual nature. 

John became more suspicious after he’d found the name written in Holmes’ notebook in the bottom drawer of his desk. The name was written over and over like an incantation—the way school girls feverishly fill pages with the name of the one boy they desire. 

But no. Not desire. Obsession. 

John had misunderstood Holmes in much the same way at the very beginning of their partnership—the intensity of Holmes’ observations, his keen eyes probing up and down, John mistook for personal interest. Holmes either does his best to ignore such urges or does not have them. He’s never shown an interest in women or men. John went so far as to ask Holmes if he was gay. He didn’t give a straight answer. Married to his work, he’d said. John is still unclear regarding Sherlock’s sexual orientation, but he is clear that Holmes has never shown one iota of interest for anyone romantically or sexually.

“I have been so worried,” she says, “but he’s disappeared like this before, you know.”

“Yeah, don’t I know it,” he whispers under his breath. 

Molly hears him nonetheless. “He’s tuned in, turned on, and dropped out,” she admits. 

“That’s why I didn’t think twice about it. Holmes told me himself he has the habit of going off the radar.”  _ And it’s not always because he’s on a hot lead,  _ John thinks. For example, Sherlock’s little “rest” at rehab. Greg insisted he check himself in and get clean or he’d let him go despite being one of the best crime reporters he’d ever known. 

“I guess we should notify someone … It’s just,” she says as she fidgets on the stool, “I hate calling that brother of his. Sherlock detests him; he’s forever in Sherlock’s business.”

“Actually, it might be a good idea, but I haven’t a way to contact him. Do you?” 

“I do, but …”

It was not only the work that pushed Holmes into rehab; Greg had also threatened to have his brother section him if he didn’t.

“Sherlock told me I shouldn’t,” she says. “In fact, he said if he ever disappeared, I should call you.”

“Fat lot of good I am. I have no idea where he’s off to. I don’t like Mycroft Holmes much either, but I am at a dead end.”

“Actually, he’s always in Sherlock’s business.” She waves her hands. “Too secretive and pompous for my liking. But now? I think you are right, maybe we should. He has connections and can help.”

“About this Moriarty? You think he could be the cause of Sherlock’s disappearance?”

“I didn’t want to think about it. I mean—what could it mean?” She began to tear up. “It’s all my fault. I didn’t know. I … I dated him!”

“Holmes?” John asks, shocked.

“No, James. Not that it was ever serious. I didn’t know he was the same James! He pretended to like me to get to Sherlock, to find out more about him.”

John nods. That is incredibly creepy. 

“He seemed so harmless and so innocent.”

“I guess not.” 

“No, not at all. Sherlock said James was brilliant at deception. I can attest to that.”

“It’s not the first time he’s gone after a serial killer alone on a case. I was happy when he got a partner to watch his back.” She turns on the recorder. 

A pang of guilt hits John. He should have searched for Holmes sooner. He hopes it’s not too late.

“Abrasions on knees.” She sighs and flips the switch off. “I wish he were here now. I’ll give that brother of his a call. I’ll let you know if he knows anything.” 

————————-

Although Holmes has become the invisible man, he is still visible in the minds of those who followed him on the column. Comments proliferate on the site’s page. John sips his tea as he thumbs through the comments on his mobile, looking for what? Clues? Maybe a message from Holmes somewhere among the replies?

He searches the most recent columns, but it’s in their first bylined case together, A Study in Pink, where John reads one of many cryptic comments by a Richard Brook.  __

_ Science? What about Maths? Do the addition, and I will subtract. ~ Richard Brook _

The next comment on The Blind Banker article is just as puzzling. __

_ One is not the loneliest number … zero is. ~ Richard Brook _

It was not until the Six Thatchers that Holmes finally commented just as cryptically back. 

_ Redirect your mind. People die. That’s what people do. Drop the science. Do the maths. ~ Richard Brook _

_ No math is necessary. Science holds the answer. ~SH _

_ Not until you realize One plus One equals Zero. ~ Richard Brook _

Something is off about it. Holmes rarely commented on posts. What prompted him to respond to this one in particular? It may be just Holmes being Holmes, but John knows Holmes well enough to recognize when he’s baiting someone. To John, this seems to be the case.

He paces around his office before he decides to go to search Holmes’ office one last time when his mobile rings. Finally! Martha Hudson, returning his call.

No need to explain who he is or why he’s calling.

“Finally, I get to speak to John Watson,” she says. “Sherlock has spoken of you often and fondly.”

John thinks she’s just being polite, but she also adds, “He never talks about people he knows. Except you. John Watson said this and John Watson said that.”

“Thanks. I think. It seems he’s disappeared on me. You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find him?”

“Dear me. I don’t. And it’s not that this hasn’t happened before,” she says. “He’s disappeared for weeks at time, but he always lets me know so I won’t fret. Something is wrong. His coffee table is up-ended in the living room, and there’s blood on carpet near it. He also left a message for you. I think you should come right over.”

John immediately jumps in a cab and heads to Baker Street. John doesn’t know what to expect. He has imagined what Holmes’ flat might look like but even though they’ve been working together for over two years, he’s never been to his flat once although Holmes had been to his on two occasions.

John pays the driver, then sprints up to the door and knocks. Martha Hudson opens the door wide. The telly is blaring The Vicar of Dibley from her flat. She’s exactly as Holmes described down to her love for frilly flowered dresses and crap telly. 

“It’s not right, not right,” she says, leading John up the stairs. “He’s left the place a shambles before, mind you. He does experiments, keeps body parts in the crisper. I’ve even had to scrub blood from the carpets that he spilled from one of his experiments, but this is nothing like anything from the past.” She shakes her head and covers her mouth. “The poor boy has me worried.”

John immediately warms to Martha Hudson. For some unfathomable reason, she seems to care about Holmes. John hates to turn down her offer of tea and biscuits, but he really needs to find out what happened to Holmes. 

It’s almost shocking how she ignores the chaos that is Holmes’ flat. She flits by the cluttered tables to the overflowing bookshelves and the skull on the mantelpiece. She points to the coffee table and the old stain of blood on “her best rug” she couldn’t remove. She shakes her head at the bullet holes in the wall. 

“Oh, those. He was bored one day.”

She really _ must _ care about him. If the condition of the flat isn’t what concerns her, John wonders what would.

“The message,” she says.

“What message?” 

She points to the kitchen table. Amid the clutter of empty tea cups, beakers, and test tubes sits an old tape recorder, a note taped to the top written in Holmes’ hand. “Top Secret for John Watson.”

“A bit melodramatic, I think. But that’s our Sherlock.”

John ignores the “our” and pushes the play button on the old recorder. It crackles at first, then a male voice clears his throat. 

_ “Looking for Sherly? I have him right here. Speak for him, Sherly.” _

_ “Come and get me.” _

Sherlock's voice is clipped. And those words …  _ Come and get me …  _ John remembers when he met Holmes. He heard those same four words that very day.

It was impossible to forget: There stood Sherlock Holmes, curls disheveled and falling into his face, fancy red shirt half undone. Probably some god damned designer brand like his suits. John supposed custom fit or bespoke, but Christ on a crutch, the buttons practically popped apart from the tension. 

And his watch? Swiss made John would bet. Holmes didn’t need the job, obviously. 

“Afghanistan. PTSD. Wounded in the shoulder. Limp psychosomatic.” 

“I don’t know why you barged in here, but you need to leave.”

He didn’t leave. 

“Why are you still here?”

“I have a story.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” John had said.

“Not the kind I have I have. It’s a ten. I don’t bother with less than an eight.”

The man actually pushed papers aside to sit on the corner of John’s desk. And in his slim-fitting black trousers! They inched up and hugged him in … all the right places—not that John noticed those types of things. Much. At least John pretended not to notice. 

“The Gallery Killer. That case was closed years ago.”

“No. Never solved. I have proof that the murderer will strike again on the anniversary.”

“Yeah, yeah, that letter he wrote and mailed to Scotland Yard. It proved to be a red herring.”

“They said that to throw the public off, and a good portion of the letter was never released. But I have something new …” Holmes waved a note in front of John’s face. Yes, and now John realizes knowing Holmes, he also had access to the contents of the rest of that letter. John tried to snatch the one Holmes waved in front of his face out of those long fingers. 

He tore it away. Only four words.

_ “Come and get me _ .” Holmes had spoken those words that day with the same intonation the recorded voice did. And John had a suspicion who the second voice was. A common, cliche phrase, but John would bet his best Montblanc pen that this was Holmes’ way to give John a clue. This must be connected to the Gallery Killer case from when they first met. He did kill again and eluded capture. Again, again, and again. Strangely, it’s the one case Holmes hadn’t solved that he seemed complacent over. John wonders now if it was because Holmes had solved it, and it was this Brooks. 

“One minute.” He pulls out his mobile and calls Molly Hooper. He quickly tells her what’s happened.

“Do you remember him talking about the Gallery Killer?” John asks her. 

“I never understood that. Sherlock would never let a case go,” she says. “Not unless he felt it wasn’t worthy. I recall one occasion when he felt the true victim was the killer. Do you have the recording handy? Play it for me.”

John did. Molly clearly gasps. “What is it?” 

“John. I know that second voice.”

“You’ve talked to Brooks before?”

“No. It’s not Brooks. It’s … James.”

“James? As in James Moriarty?” Well, that was unexpected and disturbing. It also got Mrs. Hudson’s attention. Her eyes were wide with worry.

“Yes.”

“Not good. Listen, were you able to talk to that brother of his?”

“Yes, but he ... said it was nothing, that he would take care of it. What does that mean? I told him I was afraid for Sherlock, and he brushed it off and said his brother was just being a drama queen off on one of his usual wild goose chases.”

“Yeah, I’m worried too. Call me if you learn anything.”

“You too,” Molly says. 

John looks to Mrs. Hudson who is shaking her head.

“Don’t fret. Mycroft Holmes will give me a straight answer,” she says. “That man. He is forever in Sherlock’s business when he’s not wanted. Not that he hasn’t helped his brother in a few tight spots. He’s resorted to seeking his uppity, posh brother’s help in the past. If it has to do with that James Moriarty … I don’t know much about the man, Sherlock’s so tight lipped about his comings and goings. He rarely talks about his stories as he’s on them until completed, but he does share with me afterwards, over herbal soothers.”

John raises his eyebrow. 

“He never dropped this case completely, never wrote about it. He told me you were working on a big story. A once in a lifetime story. He never keeps it to himself completely unless it will hurt someone he cares about,” Mrs. Hudson says.

John gets the distinct impression Mrs. Hudson is speaking about herself. Holmes protected her? Martha Hudson is correct, Sherlock’s focus remains on a case until it is solved. John has seen this enough.

“Between you and me,” she says, “he’s actually slipped into the Yard’s databases to get information. But he refused to peak to me about the Gallery Killer Not even the temptation of his favorite chocolate cake got a word from him.” 

“The Gallery Killer did kill again,” John finishes. “And he eluded us, or so I thought.”

As John walks around the living room, he imagines Holmes standing before him. His dressing gown billows around him as he taunts John:  _ “It doesn’t matter how I get the information. I do know when and where the next murder will take place, and I intend to be there to break the story.” _

“God, please don’t let your gonzo reporting get you killed,” John says. 

“After his disappearances, I find myself telling him the same as well,” Mrs. Hudson says. “I’m so happy that he has you to look after him. I’m sure you’ll find him. He trusts you, and he trusts so few people. The day I left, I told him to take care of himself. He said, ‘Why, Mrs. Hudson, that’s why I have John. Yes, he is my protector, my consummate army captain.’” 

She winks at John. He’s truly surprised. Not so much by Mrs. Hudson’s wink or the reference to John the protector or army captain, but that he’d referred to John by his first name. Could it be he’d been mistaken about Holmes?

“He calls you like-minded, another Gonzo reporter.”

“Oh, no. Not me. I am not the type of reporter who becomes part of the story. That’s for young blokes like Holmes.”

“You?! Why, you’re only a few years older than Sherlock.”

He feels old at the moment. John would so love to deny it that he thrives on the excitement. However, he can’t lie to Mrs. Hudson. She’d know immediately.

“You’re his only friend.”

“Friend?” John repeats.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all! Here's the current chapter. Enjoy and hold on to your seats.

_ Come and get me. I want to play _ …

John does plan to come get him but not to play.

Before John leaves Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson calls Mycroft Holmes and uses some very colourful language. Of course the older Holmes knows his brother was missing. Of course he knows that his brother is in danger.  _ But isn’t he always? That’s what happens when you chase after murderers. _

John recalls what Holmes had shared with him about The Gallery Killer. He left a trail of bodies on the streets near London’s art galleries. Always a new gallery, always two hours after closing. John googles the galleries, checking the times. Most galleries are closed all day on Sunday, but there are a few open. John takes a gamble that it will be near the Shipton Street gallery. It closed an hour ago. He has time. 

On his way, John stops at his flat to pick up his gun.

To East London then. Flower markets have long closed, and he has the cabbie drop him off not far from Shoreditch and Brick Lane. It’s late. He jiggles his knee up and down nervously. Most businesses have closed. He hates throwing money at cab drivers, but today it can’t be helped. He leaps out and begins scanning the front of the building. It’s dark, but he still tries the front doors. He talks down the drive between the buildings to the parking. He sees movement in a window at the back of the building. A man is waving at him, and the back door below is precariously ajar.

John scans the area. No movement. He cautiously walks to the door and steps through. The entryway is dark, no one around. 

He sees the stairwell and an elevator. He jumps as the elevator rings. It’s moving up and stops at four, the top floor. John pushes the up button.

John takes a deep breath and decides to take the stairs.

The stairwell door is unlocked. As John steps into the stairwell, he can just see the steps, it’s so dark. He squints to check his surroundings. John is tempted to use his mobile as a torch, but instead lets his eyes adjust to the dark. No sense making himself more of a target. He cautiously takes the first stairs, feeling his way along. He steps up, and his foot comes down hard. He’s on a landing. A ninety degree turn in the stairway with a door. It’s locked. He continues and at the end of each flight of steps, there’s a locked door. John freezes half way up the last run to the fourth floor as the door creaks open a crack in invitation. At least there’s a bit of light glowing from around the door. His heart hammers. The door stills, and John continues up the last flight and on to the landing. John takes a calming breath as he plasters his body against the wall next to the door, then slowly nudges it open with his foot.

And obviously a trap. Stupid. He shouldn’t have come alone. John reaches behind his back and slips out his Sig Sauer. At least he has his old Lucy to back him up. He steps into a hallway that’s equally dim. Nothing. No sound. He slowly steps down the hall as his eyes adjust. The open first office is unlocked and contains long shadows cast through long windows. Only two chairs, a desk, and lamp. 

He checks each door—all locked, until he comes to the office at the opposite end of the hall. He tests the knob. It turns.

He back steps into complete darkness. Other than a desk, chair, and bookcase, the office is barren. It’s then that he notices next to the bookcase a strange light seeping along where the wall meets the floor. before he steps softly up and kneels down. His hands feel the wall, he gives a push, and it opens. 

A panic room. 

The irony of a panic—it’s exactly what John is feeling as bile burns his throat. So, has it come to this? He’s hoping that brother, Mycroft, will send someone, anyone. He needs backup. But it doesn’t stop him.

He sucks in a deep breath and peeks inside. An eerie yellow light reveals the back of an old wingback chair and a double bed. A familiar head bobs in the chair, the light giving a red cast to the matted curls on Holmes’ head. 

“ _ Come in, come in _ ,” a voice chimes from the darkness. 

He tightly grips his Sig Sauer in one hand and pushes the wall and the heavy metal door opens. He crawls inside. He slips inside and quickly stands, back straight and stiff. He rolls his shoulders. He aims his gun toward the voice.

“John, don’t.” Holmes emphatically shakes his head no. 

He ignores Holmes’ command and steps forward across the threshold.

_ “Your pet isn’t very obedient.”  _ The voice chimes and bounces off the walls of the panic room. John’s head spins around, trying to determine where the voice is coming from.

“I’m no one’s pet.” He steps forward to get a better look at Holmes. He can just make out his chiseled profile. Why is he just sitting there, clutching the arms of the chair? John is surprised that he isn’t bound. 

_ “It’s me. Ready to play?”  _

The voice echoed off the wall. John hesitates, but no one comes forward. He notices in the corner of the room within the shadows, an intercom.

Suddenly the glow of a red dot appears on his chest, then another. Nothing like a few sharp-shooters tucked inside ventilation ducts. That’s why Holmes sits like a statue.

“Hiding? I thought you wanted to play. Come out where I can see you,” John coaxes. Another dot appears over his heart.

“Get out!” Holmes hisses. “He can’t do this without you.” 

It’s too late to turn back now.

John shakes his head as he side-steps toward Holmes. The dots remain trained on his chest, bouncing almost playfully over his oatmeal jumper. No way after all he’s been through is he leaving Holmes here. He gives Holmes a glance in his peripheral vision and takes stock of his condition: lip swollen, nasty gash under his right eye, and his feet are bare and bloodied. 

The door behind him slams shut. John halts, back ridged.

“ _ Sherly! You’re no fun at all. You know how much I want to watch _ .”

“Holmes, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

John doesn’t believe Holmes. No, not at all.

_ “He’s fine now, but not for long if you don’t follow my instructions. I do think he’ll be splendid if you do … at least for time _ .”

Odd, Holmes' face flushes.

“What’s he talking about?” John asks.

Maniacal laughter breaks over the intercom.  _ “I like to watch. This mutual denial of attraction is a bore. I intend to watch you consummate this … whatever you wish to call this. _ ”

“I will not!” John blurts out. “Are you daft?” He can’t be hearing this man correctly. The man wants them to have sex and watch?

He looks at Holmes. _ What was that? _ Holmes' face falls, and he actually looks hurt but quickly recovers, his face a blank.

“ _ I am afraid if you do not, I will need to make you suffer. I have a friend who would love to entertain the both of you. It will be so simple to incapacitate you, leave you both helpless. Tied to the bed. Violate you in so, so many ways. He is incredibly talented with a blade. You know about blades? Skinning alive, peeling away until you reach the bone. Slow bloody torture. My man lives for it. The alternative is much more pleasant. It’s only sex _ .”

“He will kill us either way.” Holmes blinks rapidly. His eyes flicker to the three red shimmering dots on John’s chest. “But …” Holmes clears his throat. 

“ _ Ah, but one option is drawn out and painful, and the other is painless _ ,” Moriarty laughs. ‘ _ Either way, I will be entertained. Snap to! Haven’t all day. Get on the bed or I call in Seb _ .”

John doesn’t believe they have any choice. If he takes his time, maybe this won’t happen, but a part of him keeps whispering that he wants this. John begins to circle the room, trying to get a good look at the door. It has a combination lock. He’s seen Holmes open more than one. 

“ _ I wouldn’t go there! _ ” Moriarty warns sing-song voice from the intercom. “ _ Away from the door! _ ”

John stops. He’s in front of Holmes. The man’s chest heaves and the buttons on Holmes’ shirt threaten to pop. Would it be that terrible? He’s always wondered about Holmes. The man is bloody beautiful even if he is a tremendous arse hole. Does he have sex? Does he even think of it?

“I don’t see that we have any choice,” Holmes says. He nods at the moving dots.

John doesn’t vocalize this, but he’d been counting on the older Holmes to show his arrogant face. He knew where John was going. Mycroft Holmes will come. He must. John calculates that he won’t have to make a choice. But if he must, he’ll make the sacrifice to buy more time.

“Yeah, just how much later are we talking about?”

“ _ Oh, days and days of fun! _ ”

Plenty of time for them to be found. 

His feet shuffle under him, but his mind is made up. John nods. “Alright then. But call off your sharpshooters.”

Holmes’ eyelids flutter as the dots disappear. “Are you certain, John?” Holmes licks his lips.

He nods again.

“John, I … need help getting there. My feet. I am afraid I took a fall.”

No, not just a fall. What had they done to him? 

John hesitates since puts John in closer proximity to Holmes. Not that it matters since they’re going to become much more proximate shortly. Still, despite the danger, or maybe because of it, bits of him are coming alive as he puts his arm around his trim waist. 

Holmes groans as John eases him to the bed. 

“This is a lot more than a fall.”

“ _ Remove his clothes _ ,” the voice echoes. 

“I won’t. I can’t.”

“You can, John. You must.”

Fingers slip over purple satin and pluck open buttons revealing, creamy white skin and ugly bruises. As he pulls his shirt from his trousers, John can’t bring himself to look into Holmes’ face. His breathing hitches as John’s fingers flutter over an ugly welt on his side. 

John’s hands move to unbuckle his belt, he slides it off, and it drops with a clink to the floor. Holmes pushes John's jumper up on his ribs and works at the buttons of his jeans, while John concentrates on Sherlock's zip.

John doesn’t mind this at all, and he’s completely gobsmacked by this. What is happening in his pants? What is happening in Holmes’ pants? He pulls down the zip. Wait … he’s not even wearing pants!

“ _ Slide them off. _ ” 

“If you’re going to narrate, this is not going to work,” John barks.

Holmes is actually covering his face with his damaged hands. God, they’re huge. John vividly imagines what they’d look like wrapped around his cock and chokes on his own spit.

“Are you alright?” Holmes asks, peeking between his fingers.

That doesn’t help. Not at all. John chokes harder, taking large gasps. It takes a few moments to settle down. When he does, he realizes he’s flopped down next to Holmes on the bed.

He turns his head and looks into the swirling blue-green eyes. “Hi,” John whispers.

“”Hello.”

“You think he can hear us like this?”

Holmes removes his hands and turns his head to look at him. 

“Probably. No doubt a microphone with ultra-high sensitivity.”

“Ultra-sensitive.  _ Mm-m _ .” His lips are mere inches from away and incredibly distracting. Holmes' chest rumbles with a groan. Before pressing them to the cupid bow lips, John licks his lips his own. The split lip must sting, but Holmes' mouth opens wide, and John’s stomach turns to mush as tongues touch. 

“ _ Stop that. I ordered you to have sex not make out like teenagers! Remove the rest of your garments _ .”

“Garments?” says John. “Who even calls them garments?”

Holmes is blushing again. It’s rather sweet. Even his ears are pink as John slips down his own trousers and throws them on the floor next to the bed. John turns his head a little to meet Holmes’ gaze. His eyes are surprisingly clear and his skin is creamy and flushed pink.

John unceremoniously removes the rest of his clothes. Might as well get this out of the way and get to the purpose. Mycroft Holmes shouldn’t be much longer. Before he wanted to stall, but now? A switch flipped and he wants—no, needs—this to happen between them.

Holmes’ cock is as impressive as his brain. John is compelled to touch it. Holmes gasps when he does, and returns the favor. Those fingers around John’s cock are almost enough to make him come immediately.

“Move,” Holmes whispers. “He wants more. I am fine, and I accept this.”

“If you’re unsure … “

“If we do not do this, Moriarty will do exactly what he says. You need to make a good show for him.”

_ A good show? But it won’t be a show, would it? This is real. _ John looks into the depths of Holmes’ eyes. They swirl with confusion and pain and something John can’t place. Holmes says it’s fine, he’s fine. But really, he’s not. Not at all.

He touches the cut on his lip, traces the line of his jaw. It’s so easy to caress the freckles on his bare chest. 

“Hold out your hand,” Holmes says. 

John does, and Holmes spits in it.

John can’t help himself and a piece of him hates himself for loving this. Time slows. He knows shouldn’t. Moriarty is watching and listening, probably beating off, yet John can’t help but feel a sense of relief. As he slicks up his cock with the spit, it’s like he’s outside of himself looking down, some kind Zen-like out-of-body experience. Holmes rolls over, arse in the air and face in a pillow. Bloody gorgeous. He wants to push inside, but instead, slides his cock between his luscious cheeks. God, the friction is delicious. Holmes moans into the pillow.

John stops.

“Are you alright?” Holmes whispers beneath him.

John nods. Holmes has turned his head. His mouth open, gasping. 

“I’m more worried about you,” John says. “How long has he ... had you like this?”

“Two days. Before I was in deep cover, tailing him.” Holmes’ expression tightens as John leans in again, but this time it’s Holmes who puts his hand to John's face to hold him still while he pulls his lips tenderly to his. 

“ _ I said  _ _ no _ _ kissing _ ,” the voice charges.

Their lips separate but remain a breath apart.

“A good show,” Holmes whispers again and rolls flat on his back. “Grab my wrists.”

John does. With his right hand, he catches hold of one of Holmes’ wrist and pulls it above his head, but he takes his left hand and grabs Holmes’ other hand moves it down John’s groin, pushing his long, tapered fingers against his jutting cock. He hasn’t come. Not yet.

"A bloody good show,” John says. 

Holmes nods in return as John makes a strange little sound in the back of his throat as his hand explores John’s length and girth like he’s measuring it. 

John’s cock throbs with each pull. John nudges his face against Holmes' long, luxurious neck, licking and mouthing it, but mostly nipping. He still holds Holmes’ hand clasped tight above his head. He notices that Holmes has his eyes closed. A jot of heat hits John as Holmes rolls his thumb over the head of his cock.

Holmes shifts his weight aside slightly, and John's right hand slips over Holmes’ hip and dips down. Holmes impatiently wriggles and gasps as John’s hand reaches between his thighs. He bites back a gasp of pleasure as John lets his fingers wrap around Holmes' cock and lets the foreskin slip against his gans in the palm of his hand. 

" _ Enough. No more teases _ ,” says the voice. “ _ It’s time for the main event _ .”

“I suppose condoms and lubricant are out of the question,” Johns states.

There’s no answer, only a shrill laugh from the outside.

More spit will have to do. He does his best to prepare Holmes, who looks panicked.

“It will fit,” John reassures.

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do.”

He takes his hand off Holmes’ cock and slips his fingers into his mouth. 

“Will it hurt?” he says in a hushed voice to John. His body stills beneath him.

It hits John. He doesn’t know? He’s never? Not ever?

He realizes that his fingers insinuate themselves between Holmes' legs. Holmes spreads them wide and tips his hips. As his fingers brush against Holmes’ pucker, he tenses beneath John, and he’s visibly shaking. _ He hasn’t done this.  _ The weight of the moment rests heavily on John. He lets go of Holmes’ hand above his head and begins to sooth him by caressing his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” John asks.

“Fine, John. Please. Do it.” 

He bushes over his balls, and Holmes' nostrils flare. John closes his fist closes around Holmes’ shaft to distract him.

"Oh," Holmes murmurs, his teeth tugging on his lower lip.

His hips begin to hitch a little in response to John's rubbing. John shifts his grip, and he closes his hand around the head of Holmes’ cock as he pushes his fingers inside. Holmes thrusts up into his hand.

He’s tight, so tight. John pushes them deeper inside his heat. An agonizing moan escapes from those bruised lips. 

“John, please.”

John removes his fingers and lines up his cock and begins to push the head inside. The tip slips in, and he eases himself in the heat completely. Holmes pants beneath him. 

He fits, of course. God does he fit.

John tightens his fingers around Holmes’ cock and pushes inside him. Holmes' breath hisses through his clenched teeth.

He loves this and he shouldn’t—not at all. But he can’t help it. He doesn’t even like the man, yet John continues to pull on the man’s leaking cock as he pumps into his perfect arse. He forgets Moriarty, forgets the room, it’s only Holmes. Holmes and him. 

God! It’s Holmes for God’s sake! A man he swore he despised not hours ago. When did the magnetic poles flip?

He hears the far off sound of skin slapping together as he pummels Holmes’ arse. They’re both breathing hard. Holmes hair is a wreck, and his head thrown back so that his throat arches in a long exotic line to the tip of his uplifted chin. As he rocks in and out with furious intensity, John nips and worries at the underside of the man's jawline.

Holmes parts his lips, then opens his mouth wide, breathing deeply. He’s holding, holding, holding every breath with every thrust. A breath explodes from his lungs, and he gasps in again. John’s body hums. 

The heat and friction burn him to his core yet his own hands don’t seem a part of him as he holds on to dear life to Holmes’ hips. 

John comes with a silent little shudder, though his hips spasm and jab without a hesitation in rhythm. Holmes comes with a final, gasp and a jet of semen. 

Stilted applause echoes in the room from the intercom. 

_ “Bravo, boys. I’d ask for an encore, but I’m afraid your time is up! _ ”

John hates to roll off, but he needs to get dressed and fast.

“Get up, Holmes.”

“After that I think you should call me by my first name.”

“Yes, ahhhh, Sherlock? Your elbow is in my face. Get up.” 

But he needs no more incentive. With the report of muffled gunfire, Sherlock jolts straight up.

There is a bang at the saferoom’s door. Mycroft and his men come through.

“Please put your trousers on,” Mycroft says. “Might we expect the happy announcement at the end of the week?”   



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about the final chapter(s). 
> 
> Because life gets in the way, I haven't gotten the end completed as fast as I'd liked. Family comes first! I know where it's going and have a good start, but I don't know when over the next week I'll have time to sit down and complete it. It may be a few weeks before will finish our story.

“What? Who said you could call me John? It’s ‘ _ Mr. Watson, Sir _ ’ to you.” John giggles. He’s flirting and he knows it. That’s been happening a lot since the episode in the panic room.

“John,” Sherlock purrs then laughs as well. It’s shocking for John to see him flirting back. Sherlock straightens his back and puffs out his chest like a ruddy rooster, rests his enormous hands to cover the screen of John’s laptop. He’s practically batting his lashes. 

His hands might be the size of the monster’s, but they’re tapered and elegant like that of a surgeon. Yes, like Dr. Frankenstein. He has no right to look handsome and sexy perched on John’s desk all warm and enticing like an elegant ten course meal. John finds that he wants a second helping, only this time he’d like to savor it. 

The more shocking part is that Holmes—or as he wants to be called—Sherlock has actually been nice: no caustic insults, no slamming doors in his face, no leaving him behind. He showers him with praise. It’s practically disgusting. It’s only been a couple of days since the panic room, and John tells himself it’s all harmless flirting.

Still, that’s as far as it’s gone: lingering looks, compliments, sly smiles, long leers at rears—mere appetizers.

John wonders how long it will take him to get past the whole Moriarty episode. Neither spoke of it, but there is something in its place other than the flirting. Every moment they’re together it’s like slipping on comfortable old loafers or a soft oatmeal jumper. John grins as the massive hands caress the screen. Before, it would have bothered him. 

“We know who did it,” he says, leaning over the desk and grinning into John’s face. “It shouldn’t be hard to prove—no need to catch him in the act.”

“Moriarty might not be so easy to catch.”

Sherlock laughed, shaking his head.

“What?”

“Moriarty may be a murderer, but he is not the Gallery Killer.” 

“You’re joking,” John says. “Wait, no you aren’t.”

Sherlock leans over the desk. “Moriarty likes his murders tidy and efficient. Poison or a shot through the head would be his preference.”

“You said we know who did it. I don’t. If it’s not Moriarty, then who?”

“Think John. Use that brain. You know.”

It took all of three seconds for John’s eureka moment.

“Seb. His man! The last two victims were skinned, cut to bits, and disemboweled.”

Holmes’ mobile rings. His eyes flicker over the screen.

“It’s Molly. It seems Moriarty’s man added another victim to his list last night.”

“Well, we were fucking lucky we got out of there in one piece. I didn’t want us to be the next victims. I don’t know about you but I like my body parts attached.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrow and those glass-like eyes travel down John’s body parts. “These new laptops are for shite,” he says. 

“Yes, Your Majesty Silver-Spoon-in-the-Mouth. Won’t want you to dirty your fingers with anything less than a brand-spanking new 16 inch MacBook Pro with a custom CPU.”

“Needs must. Stake out is a suite at the Rosewood. Lestrade already cleared it.”

“Please. I am not … Ah, did you say the Rosewood?” 

John sits back in his chair. He’s never stayed there. He would enjoy being pampered in posh surroundings. Although this is more along his Highness’s line, he’s prepared to make a sacrifice. That would also mean alone-time with Sherlock. John is prepared to make another supreme sacrifice.

“And it’s not a stake out. We aren’t detectives, we’re reporters,” John says, crossing his arms. No need to look like he really wants this in case Holmes … er … Sherlock wants to continue with the platonic relationship. 

“Speak for yourself. I am a consulting crime investigative reporter.”

“Hunter S Thompson meets Sherlock Holmes. Fuck me, he just better move over—or roll over, in his grave.” 

John brushes his palms over the arm rests of his vintage mahogany tall-back office chair. It’s one of the few bits of affluence he owns but only because it’s also damned comfortable. 

“I do need some sort of entertaining distraction.” Sherlock slides around on the desk, inching closer. “I suppose I could read your crime blog. Some call it …  _ entertaining _ …” His hands spin around the laptop.

“Entertaining? _ Entertaining _ ?!”

“No need to raise your voice.”

“Have you read it? I bloody-well broke the Murder in the Blue Room story.”

“The Murder in the Blue Room?” he says, perplexed.

“The Ivan McKinsey story.”

“That! A highly over-romanticized telling, but a tolerable job of reporting,” Sherlock says.

John briefly considers smacking that perfect smile off those cupid-bow lips, but he remembers the harsh abuse that Moriarty inflicted.

And Moriarty is still out there somewhere. So much for the omnipotent Mycroft Holmes’s far-reaching grasp. Still, John is glad that he can’t reach that far. He doesn’t appreciate someone being able to pluck up people to do his will like miniature people in a doll house. What is this, The Twilight Zone?

John’s phone rings on his desk. 

“That would be Lestrade,” Sherlock says. “If you don’t pick it up, he’ll be up here in three minutes.” 

They both let it ring. “No. I am not doing it.”

“Not even for the Rosewood’s delectable Sunday Roast or the Pie Hole’s pastries?” Sherlock sighs and adds as an afterthought, “ _ And  _ a shared byline.” 

“Shared? You’re damn right you’d share the byline. We’re already sharing them. We aren’t changing that.”

“Good. Glad that is settled,” he jumps up and flings out his arms.

“But my name comes first from now on.” 

“Only if you are referring to given names alphabetically.”

“Or age before beauty.” John smiles. 

“Or station before …” Sherlock grins back.

“Don’t finish that. You aren’t going to that class shite on me.” John crosses his arms, but he’s still smiling.

“Of course not. But a keen and crisp writing, driving talent, impeccable analytical, and investigative skills? Yes.” Sherlock’s eyes light up and he leans over and taps John over his heart.

“I am all of those.”

“I was referring to myself, but you do have some talent at muckraking and storytelling.”

“Why you giant cock!” John laughs. He should be angry, but he can’t help himself. Sherlock is so animated and excited despite the comment being a bit rude.

“I’ve often been called that. But I think you’ve often heard much the same …”

John clears his throat. He remembers it all too well. Like it just happened. Sherlock sitting directly in front of him, legs spread, on his desk, makes him squirm. 

“Although I don’t want to hear about your sexploits,” Sherlock adds, glancing down at John’s lap. “All the newsfloor knows about Three Continents Watson.” 

“It’s decided. Your name will be first in the byline and you will .”

“I haven’t said I’d do it.” John crosses his legs to try to hide his interest. 

“But you already have. It’s written in the way you’re leaning forward and licking your lips.”

John sighs as Greg Lestrade barrels through the door with Sally Donovan and lead writer Osborn.

“Good to see you’re both still alive,” says Lestrade, hands in his trouser pockets. “And you’re both here together. Good. My two best crime reporters together on the murder story of the decade.”

“Century,” Sherlock corrects. He jumps off the desk and steps around to the front, facing Lestrade.

“Not even the year,” John says. “Look I haven’t agreed to this, byline or no.”

“But you already have.”

“What? No.”

“While talking to me, you texted to cancel your date with Sarah tonight which you had made last week.” 

“No, I didn’t,” John lies. 

“Yes, you did.” 

“Alright, I did.”

“Do this one for me, John. Keep him out of trouble,” Lestrade says.

“You just want to keep him on deadline.”

“That too.”

“We have it then? Team Watson?”

“Team Holmes,” Sherlock corrects.

“Send me your notes,” says Lestrade. “I know I don’t usually ask, but lately, I need to make sure you’re actually doing your job.”

“Jeffrey, I can’t. They’re in here,” he says, tapping his head. “In my mind palace.”

John laughs. He already knew about this, but it seems it’s new to Lestrade.

“Of course Your Highness has a palace in his enormous noggin,” says Donovan. “Is there enough room for your ego or do you have another royal residence for that?”

“Here’s the formal invite. Came in care of me,” Lestrade says, and hands it to Sherlock.

“Most convenient. I was planning to go without,” Sherlock says.

Sherlock drops the invitation. No. It’s intentional. When he bends over to pick it up, all eyes are on his perky arse. Even Donovan can’t look away. He wears a smug smile as he stands. The pretentious git! 

_ God, I want him. _

“We got a formal invite?” John asks, his cheeks are warm. Sherlock Holmes and Captain John Watson is written in elegant calligraphy.

Sherlock slaps the invite against his palm and smirks. “My name is first,” he teases.

John huffs. “Let me see that.”

Sherlock slaps the invite into John’s chest, and he takes it. 

“We’ll be leaving you two to work it all out,” Lestrade says and winks at John.

John frowns. Is he that obvious?

“Hmm,” John reads the invitation. “An evening of entertainment. Food with room booked for us.” He looks over the top of the invitation and into Holmes’ flashing eyes.

“Moriarty is behind the invitation,” Sherlock confirms.

“And a certain trap. Sounds dangerous.”

Lestrade removes the invitation from John’s fingers and quickly scans it.

“There will be an orchestra with dancing,” Lestrade adds. “Maybe I should go instead.”

John imagines leading Sherlock across the floor, arms around each other, bodies pressed. John shakes his head. _ Erase that thought. No use. Even Lestrade knows! I hate Sherlock, er Holmes. Or damn! Sherlock! I thought I hated him. What is he to me now? It was once. And we were forced into it. He seemed to have enjoyed it as much as I did. _

“No, you don’t,” Sherlock says, swiping the invitation back. “I love dancing. Do you dance, John?”

———————--

The Rosewood hotel is housed in a beautiful old Belle Epoque building. As the cab rolls up, to John it’s almost like stepping back in time, a trip in the Tardis. They get out of the cab and are welcomed through the wrought iron gates and into a majestic courtyard. 

The lobby is just as elegant as the entry with neat nooks about to read and rest. Every chair and table is precisely placed. Even the magazines on tables are artfully arranged. Most intriguing are the tremendous bird cages in the reception.

“They used to keep six finches, a budgie, and a long-tailed parrot,” Sherlock explains, “but removed them after animal rights groups protested. The loud noises, bright lights, and disruptions by guests disrupt the birds, depressing their immune systems.”

John suspects Sherlock may have had something to do with their removal. He almost seemed pleased with himself. 

They are led to their room. As expected, the decor is as refined and elegant as the rest of the hotel. What surprises John are the modern amenities: electric blackout blinds and a huge widescreen telly. 

John noses around. The bathroom reminds him of old Hollywood. 

Best of all, a stocked bar. 

Sherlock tosses three garment bags on the bed next to him. 

_ The room is spacious, the decor elegant, and the bed is one of the largest I’ve ever seen. What size is this? Super king? But there’s only one. Of course there’s only one. _

His Majesty flops down on it. 

_ The sofa is large and cushy. I can sleep on the sofa.  _ He doesn’t want to think about what it would be like to have those long naked limbs wrapped around him again—or maybe he does.

“So this is a pretty good room here?”

“Good, but not the best. The best suite has its own postcode with six bedrooms, numerous sitting rooms, and a twenty-four hour butler.”

“Why do you need that many changes of clothing?” John asks, nodding at the garment bags. Sherlock simply raises an eyebrow as he stands and removes a tux from out of one of the bags then hangs it in the closet. _ Of course he brought a tux. _

There’s a knock at the door. Sherlock answers. A complimentary cake is delivered. Rich luscious chocolate.

Sherlock walks back to the bed and throws one of the bags at John.

“What’s this?”

He unzips the bag. A tux, but it’s not Sherlock’s size.

“Well, don’t dawdle. Put it on.”

John can’t believe he thought of this. 

They both dress, backs to each other. The trouser and shirt fits him to perfection. John doesn’t want to think too hard on how in bloody hell Sherlock was able to determine the correct measurements. He slips on the coat. In the inside pocket is one of his sharpened pencils. 

“For luck,” Sherlock says. “Not that I believe in such things, but I know you do.”

It’s actually thoughtful. This is not the Sherlock Holmes John thought he knew. 

“Let’s make our way to the ballroom. I want to observe people coming in,” Sherlock says. He opens the door with flourish, and when John walks by him through the door, he feels Sherlock’s eyes devour him from head to toe.

He takes the time to admire Sherlock as they walk to the elevator. He looks like he stepped off the cover of GQ. The midnight blue sheen of the tux reflects in his eyes and accentuates every subtle movement. 

As they step inside the elevator, John resists the urge to grab Sherlock and push him into the corner and ravage those pouty lips. He manages to resist and keeps a few feet safely between them. He can hear his own heart pound in disappointment as he pats the pencil tucked inside his tux.

Ping, the doors open and a familiar waltz flows in. When they step out, they are facing the top of two dramatic staircases leading down to the Grand Ballroom. A few more strides out, and they see the expansive floor below. Stepping closer to the railing, they have a panoramic view of the magnificent large crystal chandeliers sparkling down on the orchestra and at least two dozen couples who are whirling around below. Gold sconces on the walls reflect and gleam on the guests dotting the outside of the ballroom’s elegant hardwood dance floor.

“This is a good spot,” John says. He’s enjoying this moment, comfortable watching from above. 

“Best place to observe is on the floor,” Sherlock says.

John hesitates, but Sherlock nods toward the stairs. Side-by-side they step down the center of the first expansive staircase. At the bottom, they pause near a group chatting about politics. Sherlock ignores them and takes John’s hand. He seems to skim between couples. John’s heart thumps harder, and he bites his lip. He feels awkward and out of place. 

“I can’t dance,” he admits. “Not well at least. Not ballroom dancing.” 

“No problem,” Holmes says. “I will lead.”

As he guides John across the floor, John notices how Sherlock’s head tipped, ear toward the orchestra, listening to the beat. He holds his arms as a frame for John to step inside them. Although he holds John firmly, he’s not tense, but John is. Very tense.

“Breathe, John,” he says. 

Sherlock rests his arm loosely around John’s waist, and John does his best not to step on Sherlock's feet. He’s flushed and aroused and can’t stop staring into those cerulean eyes as they scan the room. 

“Don’t be afraid to pass your feet closer to mine.”

“I am bloody shite at this.” Even as John says this, he watches Sherlock’s eyes. He never bloody stops his observation. Not for one millisecond. 

“No, you are not shite. You are doing splendidly.”

Sherlock’s reassurances don’t help. While Sherlock glides across the floor, John stumbles, or at least he feels as if he is.

“The general rule for following is you don’t lead,” Sherlock whispers in his ear with a grin. “You are fighting me. Instead move with me, anticipate my moves … there … keep your weight on the ball of your foot and follow my rise-and-fall movement. I am about to guide you backwards. There … step straight back, that’s it. Brilliant.”

He feels flushed, and the room tilts or is that Sherlock bending him back?  __

_I hated him days ago ... and now? What’s happening between us?_

Suddenly, a change washes over him. His feet follow in sync with the music and the man. He glides across the floor with almost as much elegance as his partner. When Sherlock signals a turn by lifting his arms above John’s head, John grins at how smoothly he follows. He watches Sherlock. “Shouldn’t we be interviewing someone?” John asks. 

“When the time is right.”

Questions, John has questions. And not just for Moriarty or his infamous Gallery Killer side-kick. He’d like to know more about Sherlock Holmes. His childhood, his interests. He plays the violin, he adores chocolate cake. John catches himself staring into the man’s face. The intensity of the gaze excites John. It’s then that John realizes that all eyes are on them—not at all what he thought that Sherlock wanted. They are hardly being inconspicuous as they waltz between couples. 

Of course! Drawing attention is part of the game. To watch reactions, gauge them, draw them out. The room is like a canvas, and they are the brushes. The open faces watching, full of wonder and surprise, are the paint. After all, they do look dashing in their tuxes. But the open mouths of surprise. Hadn’t they ever seen two men dance? Or maybe it was how brilliantly Sherlock graced the room. A true masterpiece.

Sherlock ends another turn by lowering his arm. It’s easier than John thought it would be. He’s actually enjoying this being the center of attention and feeling the brush of Sherlock’s thigh against his.

“The time is now,” Sherlock says. 

John has his questions ready. 

One-two-three, one-two-three, they are sliding grace as Sherlock guides them across the dance floor toward their intended target. He swings them around, facing the first staircase. 

“I spy with my little eye something deadly,” he whispers in John’s ear. “On the left near the railing. Red carnation, grey tux.” 

“Hmm. Doesn’t look that dangerous. But neither does Moriarty, but we know that’s not true.”

“Moriarty is above us, on the landing.”

John turns his head. There he is.

The closer they get to the target, the tenser Sherlock’s movements become.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally! Complete!
> 
> Thank you to everyone for being a patient waiting for the ending of this story, especially bookgirlwithlove. And hardy thank you to hotshoeagain for the great beta!
> 
> Enjoy the ending!

“I trust you are having a fine time. You look much better since the last time we met.” 

The words alter the set of Sherlock's jaw. It’s the closest to grinding his teeth that John has ever witnessed. This man standing nonchalantly before them was the same man who beat and tortured his friend.

His name is Sebastian Moran. His red carnation is real. His smile is not.

John moves between them. He needs to k eep Moran’s g rubby hands as far away from Sherlock as possible. 

_ His friend. Yes, that’s what he is now. A real and true friend. Maybe more. Hopefully more. _

“Let’s not pretend,” Sherlock says, spinning around and facing Moran. “Let’s not ignore this Oedipal obsession surrounding your mother. Love and hate are so closely related. She was an artist of rare talent yet only gained a modicum of renown. At one time, she was on her way to becoming one of the modern masters, but on her way up, her strong attachment to unsavory antisemetic leanings brought her out of favor. Although you hated her, you embrace those beliefs, therefore resenting the artistic community’s judgement.”

Moran's face remains blank, but it’s forced. “That’s not a question. I thought that’s what reporters did, ask questions.”

John ignores Moran. Instead, he turns to Sherlock. “So that’s why he kills near galleries. Brilliant.” 

“Yes. Good of you to say so.”

“Oh, why don’t you two get a room,” Moriarty waves.” Wait … you already have one.”

“I said you should have let me kill them both when I had the chance,” Moran barks.

“Ha!” John says. “A confession.”

“I’m sure you’d love to brag a bit. Why not go on record.”

“Not,” Moran bites out.

“So sad to hear that, I’ve always wondered what humans taste like,” Sherlock says. “Chicken, steak tartare?”

John thinks he’s joking. Sherlock raises a brow. Maybe not. 

“It is a fair question to ask the Gallery Killer.” Sherlock says.

“That is if I were the Gallery Killer, and I’m not.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. It’s a beautiful sight and a relief to witness. The tension recedes more as Sherlock leans closer to John.

Although Moran’s back is to the stairs and he can’t see Moriarty coming down them, he doesn’t need to. His face becomes animated; his head turns. _ Interesting _ , John thinks. 

“I think this interview has ended,” says Moran.

“Good evening Mr. Watson, Sherlock, and dear Sebbie. No need to end it.”

”But we do need a quiet place to continue,” Sherlock says. “Somewhere private, but not too private. I don’t want to become all tied up with trivialities or twine.”

“I noticed some alcoves off the main doors,” John suggests. “It’s just what you want—some privacy but public enough to keep them from trying anything.”

Moriarty steps next to Moran.

“I am deeply hurt that you think I would harm a hair on either of your heads,” Moriarty says.

John wishes that they were in a secluded setting—then he could punch that stupid smirk off Moriarty’s face. 

“But the rest of the body is up for grabs,” John snarls, “says the puppetmaster who’s ordering the executioner to behead his adversaries.”

“So unfair and untrue!” says Moriarty.

John leads them through the arched double doors and into a large lobby where the alcoves he spoke of are located. The glories of Rosewood’s accommodations seem unbounded to John. The chairs are so ridiculously comfortable that he would love to take a nap. Unfortunately, he has to keep a close eye on the diabolical duo. 

“I don’t believe I’ve introduced you to my friend,” Moran says with a smirk.

John’s eyes widen as Moran flashes a rather sharp looking six-inch blade.

“Do put away the knife, Sebbie. I don’t want to pay to have the carpet cleaned.” Moriarty brushes invisible lint from his sleeve. “This looks private enough.”

Moran sighs and tucks the blade back in the inside pocket of his tux, but only after he cleans his nails with the tip. 

“That’s disgusting,” John says.

“I believe you have questions,” says Moriarty. “But before we begin, you must know that this is off the record. I know that Holmes may not have journalistic integrity, but you do.”

John snorts and jumps up. No way. No reporter worth his salt would allow it. Sherlock shakes his head in John’s direction.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, but you know I refuse to participate in off-the-record interviews. As far as I am concerned, unless Moriarty changes his mind, this interview is over.” 

Sherlock takes hold of John’s cuff, and attempts to pull him back down into his comfy chair. 

“One question. Answer one on the record,” Sherlock says.

“Mmm, I agree, but I choose which one,” Moriarty says.

“This is ridiculous. No, Sherlock.” John takes a seat and turns to Moriarty. “On the record or we are going back on the dance floor.”

“You’re correct John. And I don’t need to interview Moran to write the story. I’d much rather spend my time on the dance floor waltzing with you.”

John stifles a gasp and stops himself from licking his lips. At least no one can tell his heart is hammering in his chest.

“You don’t,” Moran cuts in. “You can make up anything you like and print it in that rag you work for. James has standards.”

“Right, Sebbie!” Moriarty turns in his chair to Sherlock as he crosses his legs. “What if I ask the questions? I see the chemistry has heated up between you. I believe you have moi to thank for that. What’s your favorite position? Do you like to be dominated? Are you mentally stripping me as I speak?”

“Shut it!” John says.

“Touchy, touchy! Too close to home or are you the one who likes to get tied up?”

Sherlock waves him off. “If you were the murderer in question, would you say you were a hedonist killer or a visionary?”

Moriarty flashes a toothy, artificial smile. “If I were, I would call myself a visionary. Sebbie here would be hedonistic. He adores blood, suffering, agonizing pain.” 

“Did you perform vivisections on live animals as a child? Have extreme antisocial behavior? Set your parents’ house on fire?” Sherlock fires back at him, then turns to Moran. “Did your daddy beat you? Did your mother lock you in a closet?”

Moran grips the arm of the chair. “Leave my bloody mother out of this.”

“Thought so,” Sherlock hums.

“Thought what?” Moran snarls.

“You murdered your grandparents.”

“I did not. That fire was completely accidental.”

“Sebbie … “ Moriarty stands. “This interview is over.”

“Finally,” John sighs.

They remain seated as Moriarty and Moran walk away. 

“Another waltz and retire for the evening?” Sherlock asks.

“It would be a pleasure.” John can’t help but enjoy how natural it feels when Sherlock takes his arm. 

———————

John shuts the door behind them. Alone. He’s thought about what this moment would be like since. All of the flirting then holding him close on the dance floor. But as John turns and sees Sherlock, Sherlock’s hands nervously fidget with his mobile, and his eyes wander everywhere except on John. John begins to have doubts as to Sherlock’s feelings. He doesn’t understand the change— especially after the hungry looks on the crowded elevator. 

“Sherlock?”

“Sh-h!” He presses his finger to his lips to shush John while his other hand texts. Eyes meet as John’s mobile pings inside his trouser pocket.

John pulls out his mobile and reads. 

_ Someone has been in our room and it’s not housekeeping. _ SH

John hates texting. He’s simply not adroit at it like Sherlock. He pecks back.

_ How do you know? _

No need to ask who. Moriarty or someone he sent.

_ Elementary. A simple hair in the door. SH _

_ Ah, James Bond. _

Sherlock looks at John quizzically. He must know who James Bond is. John carefully removes his tux jacket and lays it over the back of the posh couch. 

Maybe not.

He spins around and begins inspecting the roomy living room for listening devices. 

“Could you pour us a drink?” Sherlock asks. 

That’s a switch. Usually he demands. John steps up the bar. “What would you like?”

Sherlock sits on the couch and removes his shoes and socks. “The burgundy.”

John pours as Sherlock strides barefoot across the floor. He immediately finds the first bug at the bottom of a lamp next to the couch. Sherlock slides off his tux coat and hangs it in the closet, checking inside its expanse also: Behind the ironing board, inside and around the safe, between the towels. Nothing. Sherlock steps out, and John hands Sherlock his burgundy. He swirls it in the glass, raises it to his lips, sniffs, then takes a sip.

“Red, rich, dark cherries with an earthy essence.” He smiles, and sets it aside, then returns to his task searching the suite. 

John is rather enjoying watching Sherlock bending and stretching in his search. John suspects he’s also putting on a good show for him. How many times can one man put his arse in the air like that and wag it around?

John decides he needs a drink as well. Something harder, especially if this is going to take a while. The bar is fully stocked. He pours. After, John sits on the couch, crosses his legs, and enjoys the show. The Scotch whiskey warms his throat, and Sherlock warms the rest. 

A good ten minutes later, Sherlock stretches up, straining the buttons on his shirt when he plucks something from the window blinds. He proudly holds another listening device. He continues to methodically search. He finds another and another. 

Finally, he motions for John to follow him into the bedroom. At last! Sherlock hesitates at the door, then nods. 

John watches Sherlock in the large dresser mirror as he circles, his fingers gliding against the walls, checking behind picture frames, lifting lamps, checking the shades, tracking under tables. At last he’s to the bed. His arms under the mattress, he lifts and systematically inspects it. Then he checks the headboard. Satisfied, he finally climbs under the bed. His legs comically jump and jerk from side to side as he searches and his feet twitch. John imagines they’re mimicking the movements of his arms and hands. 

“A-ha!” His head pops out from beneath the other side of the bed, curls disheveled. He winks at John, struggling out from beneath. He’s found one last device tucked beneath. Taking half of the bedspread with him, Sherlock scrambles from underneath the bed, then darts off into the bathroom. 

“Bon Voyage!” Sherlock chimes. 

John hears the loo flush. 

John shakes his head and chuckles as he pulls the bedspread back onto the bed. He kicks off his own shoes then takes a seat at the end of the bed, waiting for Sherlock to come out of the bathroom.

“That was exhilarating. What would you like to do next?” Sherlock asks as he strides over to the sliding glass door to the private terrace. He opens it and walks out. 

“You’re not going to smoke, are you?”

“No, of course not. I was going to throw one of the bugs onto the terrace below.” Sherlock shuts the door. 

_ Liar, _ John thinks. “As long as you’re not smoking.” 

When Sherlock returns, John stands and moves forward to the threshold to meet him. He wasn’t gone long enough for more than a few drags on a cigarette.  _ Maybe a bit of courage? _ John wonders. He stops when Sherlock exhales hard from his nostrils, his brows gathering in a frown. His eyes meet John’s, and suddenly a fire lights beneath the cerulean blues. Sherlock moves forward with a conviction that almost makes John step backward. 

“You’ve changed my perception, my perspective,” Sherlock admits. His mouth hovers a breath away. 

John’s not sure what to say to that. John is a man of action, not words, so he pushes forward, winding his arms around Sherlock’s neck and taking those burgundy-brushed lips. The inexorable man pulls back a fraction, but bends his head to John’s as John tips his own chin up. _ God, he’s staring at my lips again _ , John thinks. Sherlock’s bruising stare sends shivers through John’s frame.

Somehow they’ve stepped back and shifted. It shocks John how well they seamlessly fit together. Just as on the dance floor, they anticipate each other's steps, but this time, John is leading. They gather into each other, John’s fingers pull at Sherlock’s nape and shoulders.

Sherlock whispers into John’s neck. “I never thought I would feel this about another. You’ve changed me, John Watson, and I am a better man for it.”

What can John say to that? I love you? He blinks rapidly, his eyelashes fluttering like pulses on Sherlock’s neck. 

“I’m in love with you,” Sherlock says quietly to him instead.

With the bed directly behind Sherlock, John arches and curves over him, and he dips Sherlock down. It’s not as gracefully done as when Sherlock dipped him on the dance floor, but Sherlock’s expression and stumble prove to John it’s the right move. 

Sherlock falls onto the mattress with John after him. John catches Sherlock’s face between his hands. For a breathless moment it’s enough. John slides up a couple of inches, feet braced on the floor, and suddenly they’re cock to cock. He digs his fingers into Sherlock’s curls and rocks gently against him. John opens his mouth to tell Sherlock how he feels, but not a word comes out. Instead lips meet and part. Sherlock stretches and slinks backwards across the bed like a cat, taking John with him, both bodies flexing into the kiss. John tips his hips, thrusting in three-four time against Sherlock, whose groan breaks the connection between their lips.

“I know,” Sherlock whispers. “You can tell me afterwards. Until then, show me.”

They roll to the middle of the mattress as they unbutton each other's shirts. The silk slips in John’s fingers, but is still able to glide it off his shoulders. John tosses it on the chair next to the bed, then kisses the elegant curve of Sherlock’s throat and the ridge of his collarbone, down, down to the gasping plane of his chest. He looks up at Sherlock’s intense stare.

John presses his lips together and nods carefully. “I will show you, luv,” John says.

Sherlock’s lips tug up; his eyes soften. John rolls off on his side and takes off his trousers and pants, then edges up onto his elbows. Sherlock undoes his zip and slides his trousers and lets them drop off to the side of the bed.

“Bloody beautiful,” John breathes as he straddles him.

Sherlock runs his hands over the plane of John’s chest. 

“You’ve seen me this way before.”

“No, not like this,” John says.

Sherlock lets his knees slide apart and his hips tip forward. John gasps as their cocks meet.

“I wanted this before,” Sherlock says. Both hands cup John’s arse and help rock John so that their erections glide together. “I want you. Only you.”

“I want you,” John says.

“Show me.”

John hand moves between them, the tip of one thumb trembles as he slides it across the head of Sherlock’s cock. 

“You know me. Who I am,” Sherlock breathes, reaching down and taking John’s wrist. He guides John’s hand between his legs. “You accept me. I’ve never had that.”

It hurts John to hear him say this. He thinks about how he once felt about this man. Why didn’t he see him for what he was immediately.

“I want you inside me, John.  _ Now _ .”

John’s finger brushes against the pucker of Sherlock’s arse and it quivers in anticipation. 

John blinks. Lube. He needs something more.

“Floor. Trousers,” he gulps. “Inside my pocket.”

Of course he brought it and carried it with him all night. John rolls over, reaches down, and fumbles around for Sherlock’s trousers. 

Sure enough, Sherlock is prepared. 

“A-ha,” John says, retrieving the tube. John sniffs it. “It smells like honey.”

“Yes, it’s flavored.”

John grins. He slathers some on his fingers and with a hiccup from Sherlock, smears some over the Cupid’s bow lips and kisses them. Not bad.

“I would like you to use it elsewhere,” Sherlock says.

John grins but he can’t help but have another taste . Their mouths come together. It is sweet, but not sticky like honey. Sherlock guides John’s hand back between his legs and their lips reluctantly part. Sherlock lifts his head to try to see and when John still doesn’t begin, he impatiently grabs John’s wrist.

“Oi! Stop it.” John slaps Sherlock’s hand away. He decides not to make him wait any longer and pulls  down and slathers it across the cleft of his behind and smooths it over his pucker. Sherlock slowly  sighs against John’s neck in satisfaction.

John lets one hand gently brush Sherlock’s cheek while the other works to push inside Sherlock.

“ _ John _ ,” he moans.

John would love to taste the sweetness on Sherlock’s tongue again, but now he has other places just as sweet to taste. He squirts some more of the lube on to his other hand and wraps it around Sherlock’s straining cock.

“God, yes!” Sherlock groans.

John’s mouth trails downward as his fingers explore the heated crease of Sherlock’s behind, teasing the heated opening while his other leisurely strokes Sherlock. 

John’s mouth hovers over Sherlock’s weeping cock, and there’s a subtle shift of weight beneath him as Sherlock cants his hips forward. The honeyed tip of Sherlock’s cock brushes across John’s lips.

“ _ Thank you _ ,” Sherlock says reverently.

As John gives a long lick from root to tip, Sherlock gasps. John presses his finger inside while he laps Sherlock’s bobbing cock until he takes pity and swallows him down whole. He works his finger in and out, teasing Sherlock’s sweet spot, made even sweeter. With a pop, John removes his mouth and finger. Sherlock groans in disappointment.

“Don’t worry, luv,” John whispers. 

_ Must have another taste _ . His tongue travels down and to Sherlock’s quivering hole. When John pushes his tongue tip inside, a deep moan escapes from Sherlock’s lips. He’s opened enough to push his tongue in. It’s sweet and musky and needs filling.

As he suddenly exhales, John realizes that Sherlock has been holding his breath as well. He looks up to see Sherlock tightly grasping the pillows behind his head. John scoots up on the bed and braces himself on one elbow. Sherlock tips his hips up and spreads his legs wider as John settles in between and lines his cock up to press inside.

Like a primitive incantation, Sherlock begins to chant John’s name. It rumbles and resonates deep inside his chest.

“Does it hurt?” John asks.

Sherlock furiously shakes his head. “Don’t stop.”

John rocks into him. He’s tight and slick. Sherlock relaxes back. Sherlock’s hands no longer grasp the pillow. John wants to pump faster, but he wants to last. He sets a syncopated pace and prolongs the blissful countenance of Sherlock’s face. 

So, they kiss. They’re holding each like they did on the dance floor with one arm clasped on the shoulder and the other holding hands. At first the angle is awkward, but all John needs to do is to press those perfect lips to his, and they instantly synchronize. It’s then that John picks the rhythm. No longer the uneven thrust. Instead the smooth waltz: In-out-In, Out-in-Out, In-out-In. Sherlock begins to laugh—that is, until John ups his tempo. 

“ _ Ah … fuck, God _ . Closed position.” 

John is pleased. He’s made Sherlock Holmes swear. Even better? Sherlock is following in time to John’s smooth rise and fall. The heat of their bodies swell like the music. 

“It’s so fucking good,” Sherlock gasps. “Better than ... ballroom Viennese waltz.”

That’s twice. John thinks he must be some sort of sex god.

John reaches back—hand spread across the curve of Sherlock’s back. Sherlock takes deep, even breaths, each surge taking his body forward and then back.

His other hand on his neck soothes Sherlock as very gradually Sherlock's body tightens. John allows his hips to kick up the tempo, guiding them forward to the climax. Their hands grasp even tighter.

"Oh," Sherlock gasps.

"I could stop," John teases breathlessly, brushing his lips across Sherlock’s cheek.

“Don’t you dare.”

John half-laughs and half-sobs for breath, as he lets himself take them both over the top.

“John!”

John cries out along with Sherlock, his body folding into honey-sweet shudders on top of Sherlock’s. Still in the same embrace of their waltz, they clutch and hold. John believes the world has stopped revolving.

He’s never felt such exhaustion and exhilaration. Long minutes pass before the world begins to turn again. They smile at each other. 

“I would say that was spectacular,” Sherlock says, “but it would be a harsh understatement.” 

———————

John sleeps like the dead. He only wakes briefly to use the loo, then comes back to bed, curls up against Sherlock, and falls back into another happy dream. 

He’s jolted awake by Sherlock, who’s straddling him, shaking his shoulders.

“John, get up,” Sherlock says in a hushed voice. “Someone is in the other room.”

They stealthily get out of bed, and John pulls on his trousers as he hops toward the door, but not before he grabs his Sig Sauer out of the front pocket of his suitcase at the foot of the bed.

They both flatten their backs against the wall on either side of the bedroom door and listen.

“Wakey, wakey!” chimes Moriarty as the bedroom door bursts open.

“Stay right where you are,” John slowly says, his gun trained on Moriarty’s head.

“That’s impolite! Put it down or Sebbie will fill Sherlock with lead,” he giggles. “I always wanted to say that.”

“The terrace,” Sherlock says.

John doesn’t have to look. He hears the sliding glass door open.

“You left it unlocked?” John says.

“I needed another cigarette.”

“You and your nicotine addiction!”

“Boys, boys, boys! No lover’s spats! Let’s not argue—especially when you have so little time left together.”

“Says you, not me.” John smirks.

“Put down the gun,” Moran says, shutting the door behind him, “or I put a bullet through that big brain of your boyfriend.”

“Not happening,” Sherlock says.

“I won’t miss,” Moran says.

“Neither will John,” Sherlock answers.

Moriarty claps his hands. “Stand off! How exciting!”

“We could put down our guns at the same time,” Moran suggests.

John is immediately suspicious. “Yeah, but Sherlock, pat Moriarty down first.”

Moran nods, and Sherlock steps forward.

“Oh, joy! My dream has come true. You get to feel me up,” Moriarty says.

Sherlock finds a compact Glock tucked in his jacket and throws it on the bed. He finishes patting him down and nods to John.

“I’d do the same for you,” Moriarty giggles, “but you obviously just rolled out of bed.”

“Set your guns on the floor and step away, hands spread,” Sherlocks says. 

John does it, unblinking. He mirrors Moran’s motions, never taking his eyes off him.

“Step back,” Sherlock says.

Moran begins to lower his arms when John does. 

“Arms up. Now.”

“Really?” Moran says. “What about him?”

“He’s not carrying anything else. That, however, is not the case with you.”

“If you must, frisk him. I do so love a good show,” Moriarty says.

“Wait, Sherlock, be careful.”

“I will.”

Sherlock pulls out two wicked looking blades from Moran’s coat and throws those on the bed. From the back of his trousers, he retrieves a Ruger. Inside his shirt, a pen and two pencils. 

Moran sucks in his breath. “That’s my lucky pencil.”

“Which one?”

“The blue one.”

Sherlock holds it in front of Moran’s face and snaps it in half. 

“ _ You bastard _ ,” Moran says, and snatches the other pencil and in one sudden rush, drives the pencil into Sherlock’s chest. He lunges toward the bed for his gun. 

The world goes white. John levels his gun and pulls the trigger. Sherlock falls backwards with a thud to the floor. Blood blossoms around the pencil. 

————————

The wait in the major trauma centre is merciless. John paces and paces.  _ Why, why, why? _ Hours upon hours he’s been in surgery. How is it possible? Stabbed in the heart with a pencil?  _ A yellow pencil. _ He’s going to throw every single one of the damn things away on his desk.

_ The man who claims he didn’t have a heart, told me he loved me, and  _ _ I didn’t say it back _ _. Now it may be too late.  _

Mycroft is in the corner near the nurse’s station on his mobile. John thinks he either needs to thank him or punch him in the face. 

“He will make it. He has to make it,” John says.

He closes his eyes. There’s Sherlock, blood pooled beneath him on the white rug. Moran died too quickly. He remembers turning the gun on Moriarty. He fired twice more. A hit to the shoulder, and then to the arm. He was going for the third when Mycroft appeared and grabbed the gun from John’s trembling hands. How and when he arrived, John wasn’t certain.

Why did Mycroft stop him? If Sherlock doesn’t make it, he will finish the bastard. And Moriarty.

John’s head flies up as Mycroft walks across the hospital floor.

“He has come out of surgery.”

“And?”

“He will recover fully, but it may well be a long while.”

John feels dizzy with relief. “Thank god.”

“It will be a long, arduous healing process. It will be up to you to keep him from doing anything, shall we say, stupid?”

“I can do that.”

“I have taken the liberty of having your possessions, meager as they are, taken to Baker Street. I hope you are amenable. Mrs. Hudson will be happy to help, but she can only do so much, and I am not in the position to watch him around the clock, nor would he allow me to do so.”

John wants to be angry at this, he should, but all he feels is enormous relief. 

_ Sherlock will be fine. I will be able to touch him again, to tell him and return those words he said to me.  _

John nods to Mycroft. “I can write from home, take a leave of absence, whatever is needed.”

“I have arranged for you to be there when he comes out of sedation if you wish.”

“Yeah, I wish.”

_ ‘I love you, Sherlock Holmes.’  _ John whispers to himself under his breath.

“Good. Dr. DeLacey will answer any questions and take you to his recovery room. He will be moved to a private room as soon as he is stabilized.”

_ Yes, I will tell him.  _

_ And I will tell him that for the rest of my days. _

———————-

_ Eighteen months later … Goldney Hall.  _

“Telegrams!” Lestrade bursts out, patting his pockets and looking around the room in a panic. “Where? Oh, here ...” Greg pulls out a small stack of carefully folded letters. “Well, not actually telegrams, they’re emails—only called telegrams. Some wedding tradition.”

John closes his eyes as he realizes the best man’s speech is about to take an interesting turn. 

Greg clears his throat, shakes the telegrams and opens them ceremoniously. “From sharing a byline to collaborating couple, to happy husbands. Congrats from Mike,” Greg licks his finger and flips to the next. “And another … To John and Sherlock. Love and good wishes on your special day. May your days be filled with sunshine and your hearts with flowers and big squishy cuddles. From Stella and Ted.”

John feels his face heat up.

“Sherlock … lots of love,” Greg snickers. “Poppet.”

“Who’s poppet?” John whispers to Sherlock next to him.

“My great auntie.”

“Hmm.”

“There’s more,” Greg laughs. “From Victor, On your special day … “

“I think that’s enough,” Sherlock stands and removes the telegrams from Lestrade’s hands. “We’ll read them later.”

“Who’s Victor?” John asks.

“Later,” Sherlock says.

Greg stares at Sherlock, crestfallen, then gathers himself. John feels a little bad for him.

“Please,” says John, “continue.”

“I need my … I guess I don’t need it.” Greg smiles at them both, then looks out over the heads of all of the guests. “First thing I want to say is how right this day is. I admit I was surprised when they both asked me to be their best man. Both, you say? Yes, both. First John asked me. I was honored and told him so, then fives minutes later, Sherlock waltzed in. I said John already beat him. Spun around.”

John recalls that day:  _ Sherlock racing into his office, breathing hard. “Everyone is your friend!” Sherlock whined. “I only have Geoff.” _

_ “It’s Greg …” _

_ “Geoff, George, Greg. Names don’t matter. What matters is I have no one else to ask whom I’d want but him …” _

John returns to the moment when Greg takes a sip of champagne to clear his throat. 

“I admit that part of me wondered if they were each going to take an arm and tear me apart or split me down the middle,” Greg says. “Most of you know that saying no to Sherlock doesn’t end well … Well, there I sat at my desk, gazing into my dad’s old snowglobe like it was some crystal ball with answers, wondering if this was the world’s way of getting back at me for throwing the two together.

The guests laugh and John turns to Sherlock and grins. 

Sherlock was right—he had no one else to ask. 

_ “I refuse to ask Mycroft!” he’d blurted.  _

_ “You’re right,” John remembers saying. “I can get Mike to be my best man. Let’s go talk to Greg and let the bloke know so there’s no hard feelings.” _

“But then you both marched through my door, and I realized something,” Greg says. “They are both my close friends. Why did I have to choose? There’s something about almost losing each of them that made me realize how much I care about them. I am honored that you both agreed to my suggestion.”

“We are,” Sherlock says.

“You were meant to be. You see, while some people were surprised that the two got together, considering that they seemed to hate each other, I wasn’t. I knew immediately what was behind all of their caustic insults. Despite Sherlock telling John he isn’t the most luminous of people, he continued on and referred to John his conductor of light. And John? In one breath, he calls Sherlock a tosser, and in the next brilliant. From the moment I introduced them, whatever room they were in crackled, and it still crackles.”

John nods his head, and Sherlock reaches out and takes his hand. 

“I know Sherlock accuses John of being a romantic, but it’s really the other way around.”

It’s true, John thinks as Sherlock brings John’s hand up to his lips and kisses his knuckles.

“There!” Greg says. “Proof positive.. ” 

As the orchestra begins tuning up, Mrs. Hudson picks up a fork and taps on her glass, then Greg taps his. Soon the other guests in the room join in. 

“What is that all about?” Sherlock asks. 

“Oh, bloody hell,” John shakes his head, and leans over and plants a wet kiss on Sherlock’s lips. When he pulls away, Sherlock looks at John breathlessly.

“Oh,” Sherlocks says, blinking rapidly. 

“Waltz?” John says. 

“It would be my pleasure.” Sherlock stands and takes John’s hand in his. “And this time, I will let you lead.”


End file.
